Circe's Dream 8
by BlueJuvenal
Summary: An incident occurs, a darkness is born, and the strength of James and Morgan's family is tested.  All characters are original, with concepts by J. K. Rowling.


**One**

Rose walked briskly down the hall, passing several agents. Everyone seemed to be quite busy today. Rose was thankful no one accosted her. She did not appreciate being spoken to by strangers. They typically acted very formal and polite, even though they always had self-aggrandizing motives. Rose prided herself on the tilt of her unwavering chin; no one usually started trouble with a face held that high.

She turned into a cubicle, rapped her knuckles against the metal siding, and grunted. Her son, James, spun around in his chair and smiled at her. Rose was disturbed to see several ancient tomes lying by his computer with indecipherable words on their covers. She was further displeased to notice the beer bottles filled with bright, bubbling liquids of varying colors. She suspected she was about to be made the punch line of some warped joke.

"Does the FBI allow its agents to grow their hair to that length?" Rose gestured at James' head. James fortified his smile with a quick laugh.

"For me, they make exceptions."

Rose raised her eyebrows and glanced around the cubicle.

"So, James, what can I do for you?"

James leaned back and folded his hands over his lap.

"Mom, I was wondering if you would consent to have dinner with me."

"Of course, James. You brought me here just to ask me this?"

James fidgeted with his foot. "Actually, I wanted you to see someone."

Rose felt her hackles finally rise. She could tell James fit in well with the rest of the world and their crafty, ulterior agendas. She started to reply, when she heard something pop behind her. Her platinum blond hair rustled on top of her head. She turned around and saw a young woman wearing dazzling, green robes. Her fiery, red hair tumbled down her back, and she had a silver tattoo next to her left eye in the shape of a crescent moon. Rose looked into her face and recognized her niece, Morgan.

"What the devil is going on here?" Rose demanded.

Morgan's mouth darkened. "It's nice to see you too, Aunt Rose."

Rose twirled violently and faced her son.

"How dare you lure me here and ambush me like this!"

James stood up gently. "Now, Mom, take a deep breath. Morgan and I aren't going to harm you or coerce you to do anything."

Rose felt her body and spirit stretch tautly. She heard the echo of her son's words, but nothing else.

"So how long have you two been conspiring? Did she give you those bottles and books?" Rose sharply asked.

"Mom. ."

"James, I'm telling you now: There's no reasoning with these people! Some of them might seem nice, but most of them would like nothing better than to polish their brooms with our blood!"

Rose twisted around and found Morgan blocking the passage. She was intrigued to see her niece's brown eyes glisten pitifully. Rose waited and Morgan spoke.

"You don't know this, but one of Dad's saddest memories is the one when you stopped speaking to him. I've heard him tell Mom all the time how he misses you and wants to know what you're up to."

Rose sensed something hot brewing. As Morgan continued, her voice became savage.

"He called you, wrote to you, tried to meet you on street corners, and you pushed him away, never considering the hurt you were causing him. When he was threatened, he thought of you first and wanted to protect you. Every day I drill into his granddaughter's head how she shouldn't hold grudges, how she shouldn't be prejudiced against any group of people. You might see us as enemies, Rose, but we see you as family!"

Morgan's voice broke on the last word. She wiped her eyes.

"Now, it's not too late to make things better. My husband, Confessor, and I host a special feast the Saturday before every winter solstice. It is Wizarding tradition to invite family, friends, and those whom we love. Richard and my mother, Braith, will be there, as will James and his fiancée, and we would like you there as well."

Rose looked at her niece's forehead and was reminded of her brother. She never wished him harm, God knows, but she realized she could never understand him or appreciate his struggles. Rose was grieved when she considered the things Morgan said. It was true Richard sought to shield her with the ring he made, and she did remember once seeing him on the street. She turned to James and was alarmed at how stern he appeared, as if he was the parent and she, Rose, was the recalcitrant child. She didn't want to lose her son like she had lost so many others in her life.

She spoke diplomatically. "Well, Morgan, that is very generous of you. I will check my calendar and let James know. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Rose brushed past Morgan and walked stiffly back down the hall. She felt her cheeks flush when she heard James say, 'She'll come around.'

**Two**

Circe ran up to Xema on the sidewalk. The school bell buzzed again, signifying to all students they were to leave the grounds for the day. Circe looked past the bare trees at the sky filled with the wilting sun. She rubbed her mitted hands together.

"Xema, let me have it now. Please?"

Xema looked at Circe reluctantly. She did not stop walking.

"I'm not sure it even works, Circe. Maybe it's a good idea if I give it to my parents."

Circe huffed and stomped her foot. Xema could be so spineless. At times, it drove her mad.

"You told me at lunch that when you wore it to bed you dreamt of your future husband!"

Xema winced as Circe yelled at her.

"I might have. I don't know for sure. It didn't really feel like a magical dream."

Circe tried a different tactic.

"Please, Xema?" She whined in what she hoped was a persuasive tone. "I just want to try it once and I'll give it back, I swear!"

Xema stopped walking and gazed at Circe resignedly.

"Okay, but I want it back Monday!"

Xema reached into her purple school bag and slowly pulled out a bright, slender, silver circlet. Circe loved how at the front the band crested, forming a small, outstretched hand. In the silver palm, a diamond sparkled. She grabbed the circlet greedily from Xema and stuffed it in her bag. She laughed wildly.

"This is going to be so cool! I can't believe you found this in your grandfather's attic!"

Xema swayed disquietly on the sidewalk. She stuffed some of her light hair into her knitted cap.

"Can we go now, Circe? I'm freezing."

Circe skipped ahead of Xema, singing excitedly.

**Three**

Morgan sat at the head of the table and serenely smiled. Before her, sitting together for the first time, was her family. James was rubbing Jaime's leg underneath the table, thinking no one was watching him. Jaime was listening to Morgan's father, Richard, explain to her why Scottish witches transformed into hares. Braith, Morgan's lively and elegant mother, was telling Circe to sit up straight and not make slurping noises when drinking her pumpkin juice. Rose was silently and politely sitting still, looking at the napkin in her lap. They were imperfect, different in so many ways, like worn down pieces of a puzzle that no longer fit correctly. But they at last found each other. Morgan knew she would never forget the contentment she saw on her father's face when he hugged his sister for the first time in years. She considered sadly the seasons they had all lost, but convinced herself brazenly there would yet be wonderful gatherings ahead.

Confessor, wearing the same rich, blue robes Morgan had on, swept into the dining room with his wand raised. After him floated several platters of food and gravy boats. All landed softly on the table in their rightful positions. After Confessor sat down, Morgan tapped her wand against her wine glass. Everyone looked at her.

"Relax, everyone. I swear this will be the only formal moment of the evening." Morgan cleared her throat. "We are happily gathered this evening to celebrate the winter solstice. Wednesday will be the shortest, darkest day of the year. Through the warmth of our homes, the comfort of our friends, the bond of our families, and the grace of our magic, we are privileged to endure this ebb on the calendar year. We are strengthened in our knowledge that the days shall from this point grow longer and brighter. We hope earnestly we may all meet again in the same cold darkness twelve months from now." Morgan waved her wand; the orange flames of the table candles turned an icy blue. She raised her glass. "I would like to also take this moment to welcome those who are sharing in our feast for the first time. James, Jaime, Aunt Rose, thank you for being here. To you." Morgan toasted the three with her glass and drank. She was delighted Confessor, Richard, and Braith did the same. "Please, everyone, eat."

"That was so nice, Morgan! James, wasn't that a beautiful speech?" Jaime asked her fiancée.

James nodded and tried to keep the stuffing from falling out of his mouth. Morgan laughed.

"So, Rose, James tells me you practice law?" Braith asked stately.

Rose looked up at Morgan's mother. "Yes."

Braith smiled, displaying her straight, white teeth. Morgan was amazed at how haughty her mother could look, and how gracious she could act.

"Richard and I had the honor of knowing your Uncle Foster, who was a lawyer as well. I remember him telling us the amount of paperwork it involved. Do you deal with many papers?"

Morgan understood that Braith was sincerely attempting to break the ice, but James' memories warned her that this was an odd question to ask a Muggle. She took a large sip of wine.

Rose stared at Morgan's mother coldly. "I deal with many papers." Morgan was relieved she seemed to thaw a bit after she asserted this. "Of course, with the Internet and computers these days, I do so much more work electronically."

Jaime put down her fork. "That's something I've always wanted to ask you guys! Do witches and wizards surf the net?"

Everyone laughed. Morgan could have kissed Jaime right there and then. She watched as Confessor leaned back and prepared to speak.

"I'm sure some do, Jaime, but we are actually more influenced by Muggle technical theories than technology itself. Information networking is a great example. Most of us don't 'surf the net', but we understand the. ."

Morgan saw Circe lean forward towards the blue candle on the table. She felt something fluid and rank trickle in her chest. Her daughter's eyes were mischievous, unwholesome. Morgan knew what was about to happen. She stood up, but it was too late.

Circe blew into the flame of the candle in the direction of Rose. The magical fire burst brightly outward, licking the tip of Rose's water glass. Rose screamed and jumped up. Her utensils fell to the floor with a clatter, and Confessor abruptly stopped talking. Morgan looked into the playful, oblivious eyes of her daughter. Her temper broke fast.

"Circe!" Morgan bellowed. Her lips frothed unhealthily.

"Excuse me." Rose stuttered and left the dining room. Confessor and James got up and followed her into the kitchen. Morgan let her rage flood into her wand. She slashed it at her daughter almost instinctively.

Circe yelped and shook her hand where the Stinging jinx hit her. She looked at her mother, and Morgan never cared less about the hurt and shock she witnessed.

"Go to your room! Now!" Morgan commanded. The table was frozen with silence and discomfort. Circe took several short breaths, then stood up angrily and stomped off to her room. Morgan blinked as she heard the door slam.

She let her head plop onto her wrist. The balance of the evening was perfect, she consoled herself, at least before the serenity slid helplessly off the table.

**Four**

Circe marched to her bed, picked up the pink teddy bear on the pillow, and hurled it across the room. She wanted to provoke her great aunt, snap her out of her smooth shell, but she didn't expect her to react with such revulsion. She looked at Circe like she was a monster hiding in the closet. Mom didn't flinch as she struck her with her wand. Circe hated the silence that followed, as if a family of friendly elves had scattered in a forest. Her brain convulsed with spite as she thought of her mother's wand pointing at her.

She wished she could crumple up the rest of the night and throw it into the morning sun. The purple and pink walls around her were too close, her mirror on her dresser reflected things too harshly. She stretched out on her bed and closed her salty eyes.

There was a quick knock on her door. Mom entered and stood before her with arms folded and an unfriendly face.

"Circe, I want you to apologize to Aunt Rose, and then you may rejoin us at the table."

Circe lowered her dark brows. "I don't want to apologize!" She noticed the anger kindle in her mother's hawkish eyes.

"Did you see the way she looked at me?" Circe asked shrilly. "At how she reacted? She hates me! She hates us all!"

Mom sat down on the bed and kept staring at Circe.

"There are barriers, yes, but Muggle-baiting is not the way to dissolve them!"

A sharp tongue licked at Circe's heart. She never spoke so deliberately, so icily.

"I don't care about the Muggles, Mom."

Circe watched her mother stand up from the bed and exit her room. She closed her eyes again. She didn't know if she meant what she said. She might have been trying to get under her mother's skin. Or not. Had she always believed it, and only now gave voice to it, or did she believe it now only because she said it? The clock on the wall ticked maddeningly, like a goblin counting out loud to himself.

Circe rolled out of bed and grabbed her school bag. From it, she extracted the silver circlet Xema lent her. If she was going to be stuck in her room for the rest of the night, at least she would let her mind roam to different times, different worlds. She pressed her thumb into the diamond palm of the silver hand. She enjoyed the rough edge of the jewel against her skin. She noticed there was writing on the inside of the headwear. She brought the circlet underneath her lamp and read the small verses.

_Recite me once before you fall asleep,_

_And endless power in your dreams you'll reap._

_Your enemies will quake before your sight._

_You'll only wake as morning sheds its light._

Circe considered what the circlet told her. It would be nice to have power, to keep the peace, to punish those who caused disturbances. So few rules are needed, she thought, so few complications for such a grand order. Her mother, her father, her grandparents, James, they all knew nothing of what it took. So many words they spoke, with so few meaning anything at all. Circe smiled and realized that in front of her, finally, were words that stood for something, etched charmingly in silver.

She fitted the circlet over her forehead, closed her eyes, and recited the incantation. Immediately, she felt the metal band contract snuggly across her temples. A stupendous exhaustion overtook her, and she crashed against her pillow and drifted away on an enchanted cloud.

**Five**

James stood with Richard outside on the dark porch. The cold wind rattled the branches of the trees.

"Rich, I have to tell you, this cigar is phenomenal." James complimented his uncle after he took a luxurious drag.

"They're good, aren't they?" Richard beamed. He lowered his own lit cigar from his mouth. "English, believe it or not. Got them at a place called Hogsmeade."

James chuckled. "I should have figured magic played into it somewhere."

James was curious to spot a feather on the porch screen. Oddly, it was glowing red. He reached for it, and saw that the garnet on his ring was glowing brightly.

"Rich! Get inside!" He yelled. He saw his uncle's cigar fall out of his fingers onto the stone floor. James dropped his own and grabbed Richard as he fell forward. He dragged him over to the back door, entered the kitchen, and drew his Glock.

"Morgan!"

James did not wait longer than a second before he heard his cousin respond.

"James! It's clear! I'm in the dining room!"

James replaced his sidearm in his holster and ran through the kitchen. He looked dumbstruck at the scene in the dining room.

Morgan, her garnet ring radiating with the same red light, was leaning over her mother, who appeared to be unconscious in her chair. James saw Jaime with her head down on the table. He raced over to her and tried to shake her awake.

"It's no use, James! Let's move them onto the floor in the living room!" Morgan panted.

"I'll grab your dad."

James jogged back to the porch, and after dragging Richard into the living room, he did the same with his mother. Morgan made sure Confessor was breathing as she laid him out on the floor. James looked at the five bodies lying next to one another. Morgan brushed the hair from her face and swiped her wand back and forth across the room.

"There are no intruders, and everyone is alive."

"What about Circe?"

Morgan lowered her eyes and shook her head.

"Circe is the problem."

**Six**

Circe raised her arms and grabbed at the pink sky. All around her was twilight, but the sun was nowhere to be seen. The softest clouds she could imagine floated lazily above her head. She wanted to suck them into her lungs through her nose, but they were too high.

She glanced down past her raven robes at her sandaled feet. She was standing on the highest point of a very steep and narrow mountain. Below and stretching around her in infinite directions were forests of purple trees. The discolored leaves fluttered sporadically; Circe felt like she was surrounded by a multitude of fidgeting people waiting for her to speak, to encourage and ignite them. Strangely, as high above the ground as she was, she didn't feel the slightest sensation of fear.

Circe reached up and touched the hand jutting from her forehead. It felt fleshy and hot. She yanked her fingers back quickly as if there were a bumblebee glued to her skin. She heard something moan over the edge of the mountain.

She hovered away from her crest and looked at the peak of her mountain; hanging from the sides by their feet were her grandfather and grandmother. Their formal robes from the solstice feast were tucked behind the iron rings fastened around their ankles. Circe thought of them as two tears streaming down the chin of the mountain. Complementing this vision, they were themselves sniffling and crying.

Circe glided over to them. She was annoyed that they let their arms hang lifelessly down past the hair on their heads. If they were uncomfortable they should do something about it.

"Grandma, Grandpa, what are you both doing?" Circe asked. She knew for sure she was dreaming, as her voice sounded syrupy and unreal. She was relieved; the idea of her grandparents suffering outside of her sleep was distasteful. Grandma looked at her pleadingly and quivered.

"Circe. .help us. .please."

Circe grabbed at the chains holding her grandmother on the mountainside. She wasn't sure how to release her without dropping her to the purple forest below. She looked at her grandfather.

"Grandpa, what should I do?" She asked tensely.

Her grandfather shook his head and closed his eyes.

"Oh, Circe. ."

Circe frowned and pushed off from the rock face. She became angry as she looked about; her grandparents were not helping her, not taking the lead in this dream. She circled around the other side of the tower of stone.

She gasped and put her hands to her mouth. Her father was suspended from the rock. He appeared troubled, but he was not crying. Circe looked at his long hair; she thought of a spider plant hanging upside down, ready to plummet from its pot. She swooped over to him quickly. She barely registered Jaime crying next to him, squirming against the chains that bound her.

"Daddy!"

He looked at her and his voice wavered.

"It'll be okay, sweetheart. Just take a deep breath and we'll get through this."

Circe backed away again from the tortuous mountain and cried. She was a witch, but she was young, wandless, and terrified. She knew she was dreaming, but her father's agony was real to her. She wished the sun would burst over the trees and burn away the nightmare. Why was her family suffering? Why wasn't she suffering with them? She circled around the rock a third time.

Hanging helplessly by her ankles was a fifth victim. Circe saw not a single strand of Aunt Rose's blond hair reach toward the treetops. Her white lips were pressed tightly against each other, and she stared determinedly straight ahead. Circe glared at her orderly hair. She clenched her fists and felt the fingers on her forehead bunch up. Everything was once manageable before Aunt Rose showed up at the house, with her merciless demeanor and her frigid posture. Circe was uninterested in the fact that she was James' mother. She realized she couldn't take a deep breath like her father asked her to.

She shot over to her great aunt.

"You ruined everything tonight, Aunt Rose." Circe said with deadly calm.

Circe was shocked to see the old woman bend her compressed lips downward and smile. Circe would have thought her unfeeling if not for her shaking eyes.

"You won't break me. Do you hear? You won't get inside me."

Circe backed away slightly from Rose, outraged. She looked at the Muggle's cream jacket and slacks and then at her own swirling, black robes, and imagined they were two queens on a chess board trying to smash each other to dust. So it was Circe who was the enemy, was it? She stared at the old woman's shriveled and wicked cheeks; if Circe had discovered the nature of raw hatred, Aunt Rose proved to be an effective teacher. Circe wished very much at that second she could squeeze the heat out of the Muggle's wretched heart.

She felt the small hand on her forehead move, and instantly Aunt Rose howled in deep and unfathomable agony. Circe was stunned her great aunt could make such a noise. Circe looked down and was surprised no crows bolted from the trees after hearing the scream. She backed away from Aunt Rose, revolted, and circled around the mountain top. The bellowing had stopped, but Circe was not listening anymore. She was looking for her mother.

**Seven**

James followed Morgan into Circe's bedroom. He studied the girl's diminutive form on the mattress; the silver hand jutting from the circlet on her forehead was glowing. He became alarmed.

"I know that design. It's a vengeance band, designed to subjugate and terrorize your enemies in a magical dream state."

Morgan swallowed. James noticed her brown eyes were trembling.

"Circe. What have you done?"

James blocked out the despair he detected from his cousin's words. He lifted Circe's left eyelid and saw her pupil buzz back and forth almost imperceptibly. He offered his tingly, right hand to Morgan.

"Quickly, use your wand and transmute my ring's properties to allow me to enter Circe's realm but still maintain control."

Morgan shook herself. James was happy to see the fire return to her face.

"The process will take an hour. I will need to be undisturbed. And James, _I'm_ going in, not you. You stay conscious here and keep a watch on us."

"Whatever. I'll be in the living room with the others. Come out when you're ready."

James walked out of the bedroom and hoped desperately his mother was not suffering too greatly. To hope she was not suffering at all was probably asking too much.

**Eight**

Morgan blocked from her mind the stabbing distractions and fears as she worked on her garnet ring with her wand. There were so many questions to ask, so many horrifying possibilities. Her objectives for the present would have to be concise and immediate. She needed to get inside her daughter's head.

She stood up from Circe's desk and without looking at her daughter walked into the living room. She watched James rise from the sofa and gaze at her with concern.

"Done?"

Morgan nodded. "I will lie down on the floor and activate my ring with a tap from my wand. The good news is no matter what, we will all wake up at dawn. The bad news. ."

"Forget the bad news. Just get going. Good luck."

Morgan prostrated herself on the floor next to her husband, summoned the magic within her, and tapped her garnet ring with her swarthy wand. Blackness engulfed her.

She looked around at the purple-leaved trees. She saw on the mossy ground no shadow protrude from her body. She was unable to tell if it was dusk or dawn. The forest on her every side was the same. Eerily, not a single animal was heard or seen. Morgan jogged into the velvety gloom.

She tried to talk to Aunt Rose after the incident at the table, but the woman wouldn't acknowledge Morgan's presence. She simply stood in the kitchen, slowly shaking her head. As Morgan ran over the bumpy roots and fallen branches, she considered how people loved to assume roles, whether as victims, conquerors, or other things. Pure free will was such a small principle in light of a world crammed with costumes.

She listened to the unfamiliar leaves brush past her as she moved, and she heard something else as well. She stopped running. Somewhere, in the distance, there was crying.

"Circe!" Morgan called out. The crying continued. She began moving again, trying to determine if the snuffling was growing louder or fainter.

Her foot hit a rock, and when she looked up from the ground, she saw Circe sitting on the grass in a small, round clearing. Her head was between her legs.

Morgan walked to her. As Circe looked up, Morgan was startled to see the small, flesh-colored hand above her eyes. In the palm was a drop of blood.

Circe let the tears flow down her cheeks.

"I can't help them, Mom. They're just hanging there."

Morgan in an instant forgot the blue candle, the scene in the bedroom, and the obscene, magical hand. She squatted next to Circe, put her arm around her, and squeezed her for all she was worth.

"We'll get through it, honey. I'm here. Just hold onto me."

Circe embraced her mother and cried. Morgan rubbed her narrow back and closed her eyes. So many of the world's disasters were formed from ignorance and malice. Tonight's fiasco would at the least contain a shard of love.

"When you feel ready, please look up at me." Morgan instructed soothingly.

Another minute passed before Circe lifted her puffy eyes to her mother. Morgan stroked the hair above her ear.

"We cannot leave this place before dawn. Until then, we will go to everyone and comfort them. Circe, please listen to me very carefully. No matter what anyone says or does, you must not indulge in angry or sad thoughts. Your negative emotions will trigger the Dark magic of the circlet. You must show everyone compassion. Only when you do so will their suffering vanish. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mom."

Morgan stood up and held her hand out to her daughter.

"Then take us to our family. Only you can do it."

Circe got up from the ground, grasped her mother's hand, and flew up from the unreal earth. Morgan held her arm tightly and followed her through the sky.

**Nine**

Circe guided her mother above the trees to the steep mountain. She looked back; Mom was staring at her intensely and fearlessly. Circe understood she herself was the one in control now, she was the witch with the power. She remembered her great aunt shrieking in pain; she wished desperately she could hide forever behind her mother's robes. Power slid down her throat smoothly enough, but eventually it gave her a stomachache.

Circe saw Dad hanging on the mountainside. She heard Mom gasp.

"Mommy?" Circe asked fretfully as she turned swiftly around.

"It's okay, Circe. Remember: Compassion."

Circe looked at Jaime hanging upside-down next to Dad. She always liked Jaime and suddenly felt terrible for her predicament. She wished to nurse Jaime back to painlessness.

Circe felt the hand on her forehead move; the rock Jaime was hanging against turned into a downy, pink cloud. It slid down and Jaime fell onto it. Her shackles vanished.

"Very good, darling! That's it!" Mom called encouragingly to Circe.

Circe heard Jaime whimper, and experienced a tidal wave of remorse. The cloud Jaime was lying on flickered.

"No, Circe! Set aside your guilt! Only concentrate on helping everyone!" Mom instructed sharply.

Circe pulled her eyes away from Jaime and looked at her father. She felt a great desire to aid him. As before, the rock magically transformed and Dad was liberated from his entanglement.

"Well done, sweetheart! Keep going!" He affectionately said.

Circe freed her grandfather and grandmother, and both thanked her joyously. She paused as she at last faced Aunt Rose.

The old woman was looking at Circe with blank eyes. Circe hovered closer. Her great aunt spoke softly but unmistakably.

"Don't do it. Don't free me. Don't you dare come near me!"

Circe back away, repulsed. Doubt seeped into her mind. She told herself she wanted to help Aunt Rose, but strangely enough, Aunt Rose did not appear to be suffering greatly. Circe furrowed her brows.

"I want to help you, Aunt Rose. I'm sorry. ."

"Don't! Never draw near to me again! Never again, you _witch_!"

Circe floated motionlessly in the air. Her great aunt's words slammed into the back of head like cannonballs. She remembered at least a hundred times when people called her a witch. The word when she heard it then was natural, in many ways beautiful. Tonight the term was flung at her like a curse. Circe for the first time in her life felt old. The darkness reformed within her.

"No, Circe! Don't!" Her mother pleaded.

Circe ignored her mother and pushed out with her rage. The fist above her face quivered.

Aunt Rose howled in agony and contempt. Circe thought for a second she heard her laugh. The acidic spite boiled within her.

"CIRCE!" Her mother screamed.

The fist on her forehead was shaking left and right, jostling her head around. Circe was feeling nauseous, and yet she refused to cease throttling Aunt Rose's heart. Blood was dripping past her eyes like a hellish rain. Her mother's voice reached her across the rumbling in her ears.

"Turn away, Circe! Just look at me!"

Circe pulled away from the Dark nourishment of the mountain and glanced at her mother; she looked so appalled Circe barely recognized her. Grief at her own weakness and guilt burst out of her mouth and eyes. She began to sink to the forest far below.

"Circe! Take my hand!"

Circe looked at her mother as she plummeted. Oddly, she felt refreshingly uninhibited.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry. ."

**Ten**

Morgan awoke breathlessly. The dawn was breaking outside the window. Confessor, Jaime, her mother, and her father all stirred next to her. James bent down and helped Jaime to her feet. Morgan noticed her face was deathly white. She heard her mother sob, and her father retch. She was on her feet a shade faster than Confessor. Both rushed into Circe's room.

Morgan saw her daughter lying lifelessly in bed. Her circlet was perched awkwardly over her eye like a pirate patch.

"Circe!"

Morgan leaned over and hugged her ferociously. Confessor removed the wicked tiara and tossed it behind him on the floor. Morgan saw him grab Circe's hand and squeeze it. She looked into her daughter's face; Circe was looking back at her, alive, but devoid of sense. Morgan bent her head down close to her mouth. She heard Circe's pitiful refrain.

"I'm sorry, Mom, I'm so sorry. ."

Morgan looked at her husband. He appeared as if he had held his breath for the last eight hours.

"Connie, please, if you can, summon the restorative potions from the basement."

Connie drew his wand and flicked it with no effect. He took a deep breath, got off the bed, and left the bedroom.

James entered and took Confessor's place on the bed. He looked at Morgan frightfully. Morgan shook her head.

"James, please help Confessor distribute the potions. I will join everyone shortly."

James pushed himself off the bed and froze on the floor. He was staring at the doorway. Morgan turned around and saw Aunt Rose. She looked as if she had aged ten years.

"You are a dealer in justice, are you not?" She asked fiendishly.

"Rose. ."

"Answer me, damn you!"

Morgan gazed at her aunt in shock. "Yes." She whispered.

"Then arrest your daughter."

Morgan heard James move behind her.

"Mom! Stop it!"

"Stay out of this, James! You conspire to trap me in this house, where I am systematically humiliated and tortured! I have nothing to say to you! I am talking to my niece, if you don't mind, and I command you again, Morgan, to arrest your daughter!"

Morgan, as she looked at her aunt's cruel, crumpled chin and yellowed eyes, experienced a wave of revulsion and fear. She instinctively knew there was no reaching this woman, not now, not ever. She laid Circe back down against the pillow and shielded her with her arm. She glared stubbornly back at Rose.

"No."

Rose smiled despicably and bent down low close to Morgan. Her breath smelled of decayed fish.

"I will do everything in my power to make sure this girl is punished for her crimes. In the meantime, you would do well to stay out of my way. Blood or no blood, I hope we never meet again."

Rose spun around and left the bedroom, business-like. James bolted after her. Morgan knew nothing would come of her cousin's reasoned pleas. A cold finger touched her wrist.

"Mommy, don't leave me, please." Circe moaned.

Morgan scooped her daughter up and held her tight. She felt her black hair against her throat. The follicles acted as knobs on a faucet, and Morgan at last let the hot tears drain from her eyes. Confessor, Richard, and Braith surrounded her as she began hiccupping over her convulsions. Confessor again sat down and rubbed his daughter's arm. Richard patted Morgan on the shoulder.

"It's okay, sweetheart. We're still here. Everything will be okay."

Morgan stood up finally and embraced her mother and father. She hadn't cried like this against them since the time she got a C- on a Transfiguration test.

Morgan saw James stride back into the bedroom.

"I'm going to take Jaime home. She's a little shaken up. I'm sorry about my mother."

Morgan shook her head and wiped her red eyes.

"James, I don't know what to say. I ruined everything!"

James bowed his head and then stared bravely at Morgan.

"No, Morgan, there was nothing you could have done. When the time came for you to make a choice," James glanced at Circe, who was looking at him imploringly. "You made the right one. No matter what comes of this, we will remain a family."

Braith leaned into James and embraced him. Morgan did not move, but allowed the sunlight to warm her hair.


End file.
